


Over The Hills and Far Away

by coldlikedeath



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV)
Genre: I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldlikedeath/pseuds/coldlikedeath
Summary: Over the hills and far awayHe swears he will return one dayAs sure as the rivers reach the seasBack in his arms he swears he'll be...Living is dangerous for Poirot and Hastings. It's about to get even more so.I reccommend one listens to either the Nightwish version of 'Over The Hills and Far Away", or the original by Gary Moore, whilst reading this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first work for this fandom. Probably multi-chaptered. These are my boys and you'll pry 'em from my cold, dead hands.
> 
> Let the Arthur-torture commence!

**London, January 1932**

_They came for him one winter’s night_  
_Arrested, he was bound_  
_They said there’d been a robbery_  
_His pistol had been found..._

Hastings stretches in the warmth of the living room and groans. Another hard thump of rain shakes the windows in their frames, the wind screeching its unhappiness at the situation. _If this storm doesn’t let up, I’m really going to have to go out and find Poirot myself._

He doesn’t relish the idea. Warm and cosy as he is with the lamps and the fire roaring, it has been an hour by the clock – the last time he had looked – since Poirot had left, muttering about clocks, keys, and some French that could have been something to do with a pineapple. Christ knows. Or maybe not. _This is Poirot we’re talking about._

He did not require Hastings, and so Hastings had remained behind, amusing himself with writing up notes and reading the latest bit of pulp fiction with a good large cup of tea. Poirot wouldn’t let a pulp anything cross the threshold, so Hastings hid them in papers.

Everyone thought he dealt in stocks and shares and that, but sometimes he was reading trashy pulp novels. Stocks? Ha! What a load of piffle that thought was.

The clang of the telephone breaks the comfortable silence, and the call of, “Miss Lemon, would y-” leaves his mouth before he remembers it’s bugger o’clock at night and she’d gone home hours ago.

He sighs, setting tea and book aside, and rises to pick up the phone.

“Hastings, he spe–” He catches himself, smiles, and shakes his head. Good god, living with Poirot really was starting to addle his brain. “Yes, Hastings here.” Now _that_ was more like it.

“They know, and they come for you. They are coming. Run, Arthur, run.” Raspy and deep, a little menacing, no hint of an accent he can detect. A previous client? Someone looking to do him harm, a setup?

“Who is this? Stop playing silly buggers and tell me what you mean.” Patiently he waits, _they know my given name and there’s not many know that…_ but the voice is not forthcoming. He wonders where Poirot is, wishes he’d kissed him before he left but the little detective had been in too much of a hurry. _What do I do? Would Poirot realise the truth if I left suddenly? Is he trying to warn me? Oh god..._ Hastings’ heart knocks against his ribs. _Have they come for Poirot? Christ!_

“How long do I have?” he croaks.

The line goes dead.

“Where should I go?” he asks himself. Already he is mentally cataloguing what he’ll bring – the small case with all the love letters Poirot has ever written him, some of them in beautiful French that Hastings treasures for the beauty of the handwriting and that same beautiful voice speaking the words of love that capture him so, those photos Poirot took of him stretched out on their bed, need and lust and love in his eyes as Poirot whispered words of love or filth or both in French, as Hastings writhed with desire at the sound, Poirot’s hands on him, his imagination rife... the address of that place, just in case it was ever needed... Jesus, he hoped it wasn't a trap but he didn’t really have a choice... he gathers his things, clothes, and his gun, with a healthy supply of bullets, and flees.

He prays as if it is 1916 again, frightened beyond belief and knowing he will die, his panting breath providing the rhythm of the shells…

 _Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâces;_  
_le Seigneur est avec vous._  
_Vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes_  
_Et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni._

_Je vous salue, Marie…_

**The Pineapple Club, London**

Huddled in what looks like a living room, all Hastings can hear is the tramp of boots, splashing through the dark wet night outside. It might also be his hammering heart. It’s still raining. He ran and ran and didn’t stop until he’d got here, and he daren’t go and change out of his wet clothes. He doesn’t want to leave the room; he feels if he does, something bad will happen.

Looking around him, he nods at the various people scattered around, the implication clear: _I cannot tell you my name, you have never seen me, and this place doesn’t exist._ They all eye him suspiciously, this lanky, bedraggled thing that shows up in the middle of the night and asks for admittance.

They all know why they are here, and what could happen were they found.

And where the hell is Poirot? Has he been able to return to the flat? Has Hastings’ disappearance distressed him, or does he know? If he’s not caught in the midst of this. _No_ , Hastings shakes his head, _Poirot is too clever for this_.

He still regrets not leaving a note, but what could he say that couldn’t be taken as evidence if it was found by the police? He’s not as good at the clue hiding stuff as his lover. His friend. His soulmate. The mad little Belgian, but he’s Hastings’ mad little Belgian, and he loves him all the more for it.

There are a lot more people than the house would appear to fit at first glance, and a little piece of his brain wonders if there isn’t something hidden somewhere.

He realises he doesn’t even know if he should mention Poirot to the proprietor, whoever that is. Would he be putting him in danger if he did?

“Captain Hastings,” a soft voice at his shoulder, “please, come with me.” He finds a lady in her thirties, face worn with stress and care and the healthy fear they’re all feeling. Following her to a small room, he sets down his things – they are not many – and she saves him having to ask. “Hastings, Poirot sent you here, for safety. I’m Edith, and he asked me to take care of you, for as long as I can.”

Her voice is soft, strained, and she keeps glancing towards the door. Hastings tries to suppress a shiver, doesn’t quite manage it. “Make yourself comfortable, eh? I’ll bring you some tea.”

She disappears without another word, and Hastings takes the opportunity to explore. A spartan, small room, nothing personal, nothing to identify the occupant. Maybe that’s a good thing. He runs his hands along the walls. Nothing. So how can this place hold them all? _Bound to be a hidden something somewhere…_

The police would not overlook a place like this. Even Japp couldn’t do that, not in a professional capacity anyway.

He drops back onto the bed, small and hard, but it’s better than nothing he supposes, and eyes the equally small window.

What had Edith meant? _“… for as long as I can.”_ Did that mean the club would be raided? Had been? Was it on a regular basis? What about if it were raided now and he didn’t know what to do, where to go? Had he been seen going in? Oh, Christ. He just sighs and waits. _If Edith knows Poirot, then everything will be fine. I hope._

Edith reappears, a hot cup of tea with the right amount of milk and sugar in it, plus a shot of whiskey “to help you sleep, dear”, but before he can reach, Edith sets it on the table and commands his attention elsewhere. “Captain, before we retire to our beds, I need to show you what to do if we’re knocked up in the middle of the night.”

“I’m listening, Miss Edith.” he says, trying to ignore the roil of fear licking at his gut.

“Good. If there is a knock at any time, you are to come into this room, press the wall just here, and it... good. The door should swing open just like that. Now,” she motions him to step in, “if you curl yourself in there all comfy and slow your breathing, then we should be fine. There’s a handle on the inside. Don’t worry about whatever you’re doing at the time. I’ll deal with that."

She pulls him out of the nook and sighs.

“I don’t like that we have to do this either, Captain, but... needs must. I’d rather hide you than they catch you.” Edith speaks softly, carefully, every word measured.

“They?”

“We’ve been raided before, over the fucking Labouchere Amendment." Edith spits. "Between you and me, there’s nothing wrong with loving. You’re a person just like me, it doesn’t matter to me who you love.”

She almost dares him to contradict her words, to challenge what she believes is right. “I will give people safety here until either the law changes, or I die. Whichever comes first.” Edith asserts, steel underlying the words.

Hastings swallows. _She’s not one to be trifled with._

Edith continues, softer now. “The way Poirot speaks of you, I know you’re special to him. If we’re knocked up, you have ten seconds to hide yourself anywhere you can, and no more. You’ll hear the knock all through the house. Do it quietly, alright? I’ll come and knock again when it’s safe for you to come out. Look here,” she lifts a floorboard, “put your case in here.”

Hastings nods, sacrificing the small case to the dark, and praying he never needs to explain it. “Do you know where he is?”

“No. And if I did, I would not tell you. If you’re taken, they won’t drag it out of you, because you don’t know.”

“Taken? Taken where? Has Poirot been taken?”

“Down the Yard, darling. Lad like you wouldn’t last long. And no. I will show you the other hiding places tomorrow.” With that news she goes to leave, bidding Hastings a tired goodnight.

Edith turns back at the door. “Captain Hastings, have you realised why you’re here, what I do?”

“Yes.” He’s proud of the fact his voice remains steady. “You, this house, give sanctuary and safety to people that may or may not have been turned in to the police.” He swallows. “That’s the only reason I can think of.”

Edith smiles at him and comes over. She nods in acceptance of the truth and leans down; Hastings is startled to feel a gentle kiss on his forehead – absolution or penance he does not know, but he takes it as it is, and it seems almost that Poirot is here, if he shuts his eyes.

“Goodnight, Arthur. I’ll keep you as safe as I can; Hercule will bloody kill me if I don’t. Get some sleep, now. Rest easy, no harm has come to him.”

_Oh, my love, where are you? Where are you?_

He curls up tight, cold and unnerved under the blanket. Hastings sleeps fitfully, knocks and boots tramping their way through his dreams.

He dreams of Poirot on the gallows, the noose tight and his own screams wake him.

 _Over the hills and far away_  
_For ten long years he’ll count the days_  
_Over the mountains and the seas_  
_A prisoner’s life for him there’ll be_

Sitting having a quiet breakfast two weeks later, a knock on the door makes them freeze.

It was _almost_ a normal morning.

At the insistent repetition, Hastings and the ten other people of various shapes and sizes get up and tiptoe away, some sliding beneath floorboards and into walls, or climbing into roof spaces.

Edith clears the table to look as if only two have always been there.

Arthur darts to his hiding place, tapping the wall and sliding in to the tight, confined room. His gun is, as always, in his pocket, and he prays he’ll never have to turn it on anyone. The space is barely big enough for his six foot, but he’s used to it by now – every couple of days there’s a knock – and if he crouches, he should be alright. He listens, slows his breathing and tries to calm his frantic heart. He can hear the footsteps, the shouts of policemen, “None here, sir!”

“I told you, it was the wireless. Do you lot have nothing better to do? Go catch some murdering bastards, and leave me alone!” Edith.

“Attic’s clear, sir!”

“There’s only two people here, sir, I don’t think this is right information at all. I can’t see any others. I don’t think anyone else has ever been here, aside from her kids, like, and they’re gone, sir.”  
  
“You’re right, lads, I’d say we’ve been had. Again. Hang on, what’s this?” Hastings thinks he hears Japp’s voice. “Why are there five plates in the sink, Miss?”

“I had a dinner party last night and haven’t got round to washing up yet.” Edith lies smoothly.

“Who attended?” Japp sighs; he knows he’ll have to do the legwork here and doesn’t like it one bit.

“Lord Nicholas Bolingbroke, Lady Victoria Cambridge-Bolingbroke, Arthur-”

Hastings’ heart stops when he thinks he hears his own name. Muffled, it could be anything.

“- and Frances McAteer, and my brother, John.”

“What are their addresses?” Taylor.

“I will get you a list.” She trips away and back.

“What about the Belgian?” A rough Yorkshire voice, DS Taylor. Hastings and Poirot have only ever had a few dealings with him.

“Which one?” Japp returns – it is him – and Hastings thinks he can hear a smile somewhere in his voice.

“The short one that’s finicky ‘bout everything and ‘as a flamin’ great care for ‘is moustache.”

“That could be any of them.” Japp deadpans, and Hastings swallows laughter.

“The short one with a head like an egg. I’d like to crack it open, see what comes out.”

_Damn._

“What about him?” Japp asks carefully.

“He’s livin’ with another bloke, ain’t he, Cap’n summat... there’s a lotta rumours swirlin’ round ‘em...”

Hastings’ heart flips in his chest, catching in his throat.

“Just because they’re living in the same flat does not mean they are breaking the law.” There’s a sigh behind Japp’s words.

Hastings thinks he’s had to say them many times; either in defence of a man younger than he, or against an older view than his own. He might not like the law as it stands, but he’s still got to enforce it.  
  
Hastings knows, like many others, neither he nor Poirot are safe any longer, indoors or out. Anything could put them in danger, and he wonders if it’s safe to return to Whitehaven Mansions.

Actually, now the idea is in his head, he thinks not; it is entirely possible the building is under surveillance. Miss Lemon may still be continuing her work, but they should leave her alone.

There is nothing about her that suggests she will ever enter this establishment, or one like it, and if ever there were, the police would have had her in a cell by now.

Perhaps Edith will know if it’s safe to go home.

 He misses the slam of the front door, and starts when she knocks gently on his panel. He slides out, slightly dusty, and pales to see Poirot standing next to her, looking oddly solemn.

 _“Mon amour...”_ he whispers, pulling Hastings tight to him. Poirot is trembling, and so Arthur pulls him closer, soothing them both.

The two men are quiet – Poirot, for once in his life, does not complain about the dust covering Hastings – and they revel in this secret contact. They’re both terrified, both pleased, and Poirot snuggles into Hastings, even as Hastings tightens his arms around the small Belgian.

He rests his chin on Poirot’s head, prompting a soft laugh from Edith.

“What the hell is this?” Hastings hisses when he pulls away. “What in god’s name is happening?”

“ _Mon ami, mon petit ami_ , they are picking us off like the flies!” Poirot mutters.

“Oh god. It’s happening then.” Hastings physically has to stop himself from darting to the door and running for it. Where would he go? Where would any of them go?

“We knew it would, and this, my friend, this is why you are here, I wanted to keep you safe.” Poirot sighs.

“So who called me? And what about you?” Arthur asks.

Poirot shrugs. He knows damned well, and he knows Hastings knows he knows, but now is not the time for argument. They must be safe.

“Japp was here yesterday morning,” Hastings offers instead, “with others.”

Poirot looks up. “He was?”

“Yes. But one of the sergeants thought they might have wrong information. He did ask after you, though.”

“And what does he say?”

Arthur can see the gleam in the green eyes.

“The short one with a head like an egg.” he quotes, the laughter evident in his voice. Poirot rolls his eyes.

“I do not have a head like _l’œuf_! Has not anyone in England seen an egg?! My head is not it!”

The indignation really is rather hilarious, and Hastings grins, laughing partly out of relief that they have not been discovered. Yet.

“If the Chief Inspector Japp was here-” Poirot muses.

“Monsieur Poirot, we have been raided several times now.” Edith says gently. “The police, they know about us, they know this place is here.” She sighs deeply, her stance speaking of many, many nights like these. “Even if the police do have wrong or malicious information, aren’t they duty-bound to investigate it? And we could–”

Hastings snorts; he’s ignored.

 _“Et ou aller?”_ Poirot gestures around him. “There is nowhere to go. Not even Whitehaven Mansions are safe.” That answers that question, then.

“Miss Lemon?” Hastings asks.

“ _Non_ , the first place they will look. They are trying to get rid of me, but they want to bring you down too, Hastings, _et ça_ , I will not allow. I cannot.” Poirot whispers, stroking Arthur’s cheek.

“How did you get in?” the captain thinks to ask.

Poirot winces. “Through a window, and then I hid until the police left. No one questioned it.”

 _Japp’s bastard of a sergeant seemed to_ , Hastings’ brain darkly chirps, but he says nothing, revelling in the touch of the soft hand on his cheek and lips on his mouth.

“Through a window?!” he splutters, when his brain comes back into focus for half a second.

 _“Oui. Poirot, il doit te quitter.”_ Poirot whispers, withdrawing. “I will return soon, do not fear, my love.”

Before Hastings can ask anything of him, he’s gone.

The days and nights, they pass the same way; in a fog of not knowing, the routine of hiding, hiding, hiding when they have to, and quiet when they don’t...

... and then it falls apart.

 _He knew that it would cost him dear_  
_But yet he dare not say_  
_Where he had been that fateful night_  
_A secret it must stay_

 


	2. The Calm Before The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Hastings - all anyone can do - is wait. Wait for an arrest, wait for death, wait for the moment that may never come...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot the call forward in this one, and the reference, you get a cookie. Do let me know what you think.

_They marched him to the station house_   
_He waited for the dawn_   
_And as they led him to the dock_   
_He knew that he’d been wrong_

A week later, a late night knock has Hastings springing from his bed, smoothing the covers and running for the wall. He’s barely closed the hidden panel with a soft click when the door crashes open, and Scotland Yard swarm like a herd of angry bees. There's no light, he doesn't know how late - or early - it is.  
  
He holds himself tight, military bearing, _not a move or all hell will break loose, this is your trench, son, and it’s your fortress, do not go down without a fight! Don’t let them take it, or you!_

He inwardly swears to every brother-in-arms he ever had that he will not, if he can help it.

Someone flips the bed over, puts their boot through it. There’s nothing there. Nothing to be found in the sheets either. Nothing under the pillow.

Someone else is screaming distantly, and Hastings closes his eyes in defeat, silently mouths a prayer for them.

The crunch of a floorboard coming up almost makes him cry.

_“You stand accused of sodomy”_   
_He heard the judge now say_   
_He knew without an alibi_   
_Tomorrow's light would mourn his freedom_

“Well, well. What do we have here?” The voice took much too much pleasure in the find. Not Japp, then.

If Hastings listens hard enough, he can hear Japp and his men flicking through the few photos there, the letters, the inhalation of breath as they seem to go back to the photos, and...

“… is that? My god!” Almost a breathless laugh, and Hastings would put money on none of Japp’s men having seen photos like that, before.

Ones that weren’t of women, anyway.

“Who?” Disinterested, hasn't caught the significance yet.

Hastings can hear Japp knocking softly at the wall, distracted by his task. His only hope is that he knocks wrong on the _bit_.

“The Belgian’s mate, the... wassis name? Been in the army, I think. Ah, look. You’ll probably know who that is, even if I don’t.”

Paper slaps against the wall. Hastings flinches at the sound echoing in the small space like a shell shot. The knocking ceases.

“That’s not… bloody hell!” Japp whistles. “Give me those.” The footsteps recede a little, over to the light, Hastings guesses. A flood of illumination proves him correct, and he uses the faintness to glance at his watch.

It is three in the morning.

“My god, it is.” Japp, disbelief ringing through his tones. Another thump, this time paper against flesh.

“Didn’t know he was that good looking, did you, sir?” A leer in the voice. Hastings shudders, holds back tears. _Oh god, that’s it, we’re going to die…_

“Shut up, Taylor. All right, we’ve got enough, go outside and wait. Go.” Japp’s voice is calm, and Hastings stifles a desperate sob, aching for Poirot against him, to hold him and ease the pain, to tell him he has a plan. Because dammit, Hastings never had one in the first place.

When Edith knocks fifteen minutes later to tell him they’re gone, Hastings is openly, silently weeping, the clock ticking down the moments til they come again.

Edith cradles his long, lean form, and he weeps unashamed, wanting nothing more than to be warm and safe in Whitehaven, curled in his bed in his lover’s strong arms.

“Shhh, little’un. Sshhh. You’ll see him soon. It’ll all be over soon.”

Hastings weeps harder, unable to see a way out.

 


	3. The Storm Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is, he thinks, one way out, and one way only.

Hastings sits on the bed in the early hours of the next morning, in the silence and the dark, the chiming of various clocks striking four. 

Dishevelled and sleepless, he cradles his gun, and he waits. For life? For death? For Poirot? Hastings does not know. The barrel is cold against his temple. The torn up floorboard mocks him. 

_He had to fight back tears of rage_

_His heart beat like a drum_

_For in the bed of his best friend_

_He spent his final night of freedom_

 

They have taken every treasure he has, so what’s the point? Poirot is gone. The letters written, the photos, they are gone.

Captain Arthur Hastings has seen the horror of the world, the things humans can do, and he does not want to know what’s going to happen when the law comes for him. 

Hastings loads the six bullets. He caresses the smooth pistol. Puts it in his mouth. It tastes bloody awful. That will not be an issue in a moment. He shakes with the force of his grief, sobbing. When he’d thought Poirot was gone. But this. This won’t be an illusion. No coming back from this. 

_Je suis désolé, mon petit Hercule. I love you so much it hurts. Kiss me before they put me in the ground. One last time._

_He knew that it would cost him dear_

_But yet he dare not say_

_Where he had been that fateful night_

_A secret it must stay_

A shot rings out into the night. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They marched him to the station house  
> He waited for the dawn  
> And as they led him to the dock  
> He knew that he'd been wrong...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the length of time this update has taken; I was away.

The door slams open. Hastings whips the pistol from his mouth. Points it at the door. He’s a soldier until the last and he must defend himself.

And there is an enemy at the gates.

“Stay back or I’ll shoot.” he snarls.

“You’d never, Captain. You’re to come with me.” Taylor tries to placate him. “There’s no getting away from it. We have seen the evidence. We know what you’ve been doing.”

“You know nothing!” Arthur growls, planting his feet hard against the floor. His body is taut, still with the whipcord strength of his army days. Tense and ready for anything. He tracks the DS’s movements steadily with the gun. A gun that has shot many, and will not hesitate to shoot another. _Because he had to, to save himself. He had no choice. This is war. And no one is gracious when they are dead. Or trying to kill you._

“Arthur James Matthew Hastings, I hereby place you under arrest on the counts of possessing homosexual images and engaging in sodomy and other lewd acts. Anything you do say–”  
  
Arthur discharges a shot into the broken floorboard and heads for the door. Japp goes for him, bringing him to his knees outside. Hastings howls, fighting like the soldier he still is, to no avail.

“No, Captain!” Japp wrestles him to the ground, pulling the gun from him. But here, his mistake is to hold it too loosely, to think Arthur is not foolish in his desperation.

Hastings just laughs, full of hysteria and desperation, as he pushes the pistol under Japp’s chin. “I’m going down anyway! Why not for something worth it?” Arthur howls tearfully into the wet night.

Japp eases Hastings’ pistol down and away from his own chin, as he guides Arthur to the police car. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see a few of his men breathing sighs of relief.

“You don’t want to do that, Hastings.” he rumbles gently into his ear, almost tender in his hold. “I couldn’t get you free from the noose if you did.”

Hastings’ look of despair says _I am going to the noose anyway, and well you know it._

At the station, he is questioned endlessly, questioned and questioned yet again about things he refuses to answer. Through the night, he smokes plenty and says nothing, sweat slicing cold down his back. The walls of the tiny room stink of years of cigarette smoke.

He can’t ask for a lawyer. None would represent him. The very act of asking would be an admission of guilt.

“I always knew there was something about you, _Captain_ ,” Taylor sneers the word, the respect the rank demanding long gone, “something unnatural, and I was right. The years at the front with only your male friends, you were bound to need something, weren’t you?”

He paces the floor of the small room, reeking of sweat and cigarettes. Japp and Hastings really aren’t much better, bedraggled and dishevelled and Japp’s hair, given free rein, is a bit fluffy, as is Hastings’ own.

Arthur hasn’t shut his eyes since he was taken. Hasn’t had a chance.

“What’s the phrase?” The young DS hisses, almost laughing, “Taking your comfort where you can get it? Mm? I’m sure you got it there, who was there to tell? They’d all die anyway.”

“DS Taylor, outside.” Japp snaps. “Now!”

Hastings forces himself not to show anger, fear, anything. It’d only end badly. Outside, he can hear muffled swearing and his name.

“The law is the law, sir! And he–”

“–not a petty thief to be roughed up! He fought on the Western Front, and you will show him respect, law be currently damned!”

“E’S A FUCKIN’ SHIRTLIFTER! AN ARSE BANDIT!”

A deadly silence pervades.

 _Well, if London didn’t know before, they jolly well do now._ Arthur groans, his head in his hands. _This is it. Poirot will be ruined. And because of me. I knew I should’ve gone back to the Front to die._

There’s a sharp thump, and a muffled yell. If Hastings puts his ear to the door again, he can hear Japp low and menacing – the angriest he has ever heard him.

“– he’s also done great service for this country, which I know damned well you shirked! Were he in your place, he would not be so quick to judge. I may not understand him, but I understand little jumped up bastards like you.” Shuffling of clothes, maybe he’s been let go. “And you have no advancement in this nick.”

Japp whistles for DS Burns, issues muffled instructions, and two pairs of feet tramp away.

And that seems to be the last word on that.

When Japp returns to the room, Taylor is with him, though a little subdued, and Japp shrugs as if to say, “we started this, so we need to finish it.”

They lay the letters and photos in front of him; one by one, the damning evidence laid bare, and Arthur tries to protect his friend inasmuch as he can; they are somewhat saved by Japp’s wilful obtuseness, and Taylor’s not knowing Poirot’s handwriting from Egyptian hieroglyphics.

“Do you deny that this is you in this photo?” His chest, gleaming with sweat, his neck arching into the distance. He represses a shiver.

_Poirot’s strong hands trail ever so lightly down his chest, and Arthur tosses his head in pleasure._

_“More,” he gasps._

_Poirot’s fingers trailing over his lips, Arthur’s tongue sneaking out to lick at them._

_“Oui, mon amour…”_

_Expert, gentle hands play on his body, down further and Hastings is surrendering, needy and moaning as he is touched, stroked and as two fingers stretch him, his “Ohhhh!” of surrender mixes with the soft clicks of the camera. Poirot strokes his Arthur’s beautiful face with his free hand._

_“Mon bon garçon. Mon beau garçon, hein? Oh, oui…” The sheer eroticism of the voice, the sultry things it says..._

“That isn’t me.” Hastings lies. It could be anyone.

And he might be at odds with himself right now _because_ he’s lying, but they’ll have to break him to get the truth. DS Taylor looks all too happy to lead that charge, given that Arthur probably just got him sacked.

“Your face is in this one!” Taylor roars over the table at him, laying another photo down. “Do not lie! Do you know what we can do to you?”

“Taylor!” Japp is firm, if exhausted. “You can do nothing, as things stand. Stop harassing the suspect, for Christ’s sake.”

Japp watches Hastings like a hawk. He doesn’t want to see it, does not want to know if he can help it; the less he knows, the less chance Hastings will end up on the gallows.

“Whose hands are those?” Japp asks gently, although he already knows the answer. _Please, Captain, please understand that I have to do my job, too – and there are some things I can’t protect you from._

“How the hell should I know that?” The words emerge as a deep, angry rasp, Hastings’ pain giving him fuel.

Japp lays down yet another photo. A close up of strong hands on a sweating chest, the wrists visible, and a cufflink. Stylised lettering escaped from the confines of the owner’s shirt, lying against the skin…

_The cuff is cool against Arthur’s sweating skin, the drag pleasant as Poirot plays up and down his heaving chest. Arthur can’t stay still, writhing to meet the questing hands and the link digging slightly into his skin, crying out his need, as Poirot pants softly into his pliant mouth._

_“Hercule, mon Hercule, j’ai besoin de plus, ahhh, s’il te plaît mon amour!” Hastings can’t help it – years down the Front had left him with a healthy knowledge of the language, which he never uses, not unless he’s lost total command of himself. And that was the goal of Poirot this night. Make him scream, no matter how, undo his Hastings and that damn prudishness while Poirot’s at it. Break him into beautiful pieces as Arthur wants and then put them back together._

_Hastings writhing in need and desire, and calling for his love is the mark of how much he trusts Poirot, how he moans and cries out with sheer want as the little man rips him apart and holds him close until they reach completion, Hastings pleading desperately for more even as he’s filled, utterly undone, gasping to feel the heat inside him, muffling a cry into his beautiful Hercule’s neck as Hastings rides him hard, begging for anything, more, for love, sweat-soaked everything everywhere, the feel of Poirot’s skin beautiful under his hands…_

“Captain Arthur Hastings, I am charging you with sodomy and possession of lewd images, as per Section Eleven. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Japp rises as he recites the familiar caution, cuffing Hastings, and leading him down to the cells. “Come on. You know what happens next. Give me your pistol.”

Hastings surrenders it, feeling as if a part of him is dying. It hasn’t been off his person since he was issued with it in 1914, almost eighteen years ago.

Feels like less, some nights.

Japp either won’t, or can’t, tell him where Poirot is. Maybe he’s trying to keep them both safe, although from what, Arthur cannot tell now.

Every road leads to the gallows.

The cell door clangs shut, a deep thunk that breaks Arthur’s heart, his howl of anguish for life and love reverberating around the dark, close walls.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You stand accused of sodomy," he hears the judge now say  
> He knew without an alibi  
> Tomorrow's light would mourn his freedom...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not au fait with the legal system as it was then. Please suspend your disbelief.

The cell door clangs shut, a deep thunk that breaks Arthur’s heart, his howl of anguish for life and love reverberating around the dark, close walls.

In the dark and the yells, he returns once again to the Western Front, to the Somme, Ypres, the horrors faced therein, battling for life and love and sanity again. _You kept body and soul together however the hell you could..._

Every man ever downed in front of him, every one he could not save admonishes him as they are dying in his arms, every footstep a gunshot, every shout a scream of pain, every breath full of gas, drowning in air, battling his own body, every bang is a shell landing and the vibrations shake him to his core. He wraps his arms around himself, desperately trying to keep his shaking bones in some formation of a skeleton.

He takes the thin blanket and wraps it tight around himself, curling up as well as he can underneath the bed, safe with something solid above him _(as long as the bloody trench doesn’t cave in)_ for the night, as safe as he can hope to ever be without his love beside him.

In the morning, Japp appears again. Arthur rolls out from under the bed and rises stiffly, saying nothing, and just managing to _not_ snap off a salute after the nightmares he’s endured. Japp raises an eyebrow fractionally. Hastings throws him a glare. _No one’s business why I was on the floor._

“You have a court date.” the inspector comments conversationally as he lays Arthur’s breakfast tray down; it’s a full three minutes before Hastings responds. _Eat it before the next attack, you never know when you’ll eat again. Or not..._

“I say, what do you mean, I have a court date? What on earth for? Surely...” But even as he utters the protests, he knows they are token and hopeless; his voice is flat, accepting, devoid of light or any life at all. He takes the last spoonful of what looks like porridge.

“It’s tomorrow.” Japp intones.

“What? But... that’s too soon, it can’t... where is Poirot? Please, Inspector, tell me.”

“I don’t know, Hastings. Listen, I shouldn’t say this,” and with a breath, he plunges ahead, “but you know what you’re going to be charged with. They’ll give the evidence we found that night – the photos, the letters – and they’ll try and twist the case against you. Fellmore and Sharpman are a devious pair of bastards, and the latter has put a fair few away in his time. He’ll try and rip you apart, try and ensure the jury don’t know what way is up. Keep your head, Captain. No matter what he may insinuate about you or Poirot or both, you cannot lose it.”

All Hastings can do is nod, and lose himself in a world of panic when the chief inspector leaves.

8am the next morning, he’s woken with a clang, and a “get up, poof!” roar from outside. He winces as he makes his way to the washbasin, the icy water waking him, telling him he is in prison, and not the trenches. _There was never a difference, really._

He dresses with care, shaking out the wrinkles in his suit, and every touch of his clothing he wishes were Poirot’s capable hands.

With a deep breath and a last swipe of the comb through his hair – _that bloody curl_ – he bangs on the cell door for it to be opened, and, in irons, begins the long walk to his fate.

Court Number One of the Old Bailey is full when they arrive, packed to the rafters, or so Arthur is told as he’s placed in the holding cells beneath. He knows there might be some time before he’s in the dock, and he dislikes every second; he cannot think what he is to do. What Poirot might do. Where he might be, has he heard? Of course he's heard, it'll be all over the papers by now...

And he knows that the Labouchere cases are always heard here. Ever since the amendment came in, they’ve always been here. They’re always quick and dirty, too. Gives the gawkers and the papers easy access to the dirt and the scandal.

 _No, thinking like this is just going to make it harder,_ he admits to himself, a treacherous hand running through his hair and ruining his good work.

He wishes he’d read the letters. He wishes he had his pistol.

Three hours later, he’s called up. The clock above the door tells him it’s just struck midday, coinciding with the call of, “Bring up the prisoner.”

Hastings has no choice but to painfully, slowly make his way up to the dock, the narrow brick walls closing in on him as he walks. He tries to keep breathing evenly. Fainting now would not go over well.

No Poirot to be seen when Arthur emerges into the dock, and he is glad because he doesn’t want his lover, his friend, to witness his downfall. But he doesn’t care enough to even send him a message. He’s probably well into Europe by now, possibly gone back home to Belgium, where the law is kinder...

“All rise. You are Arthur James Matthew Hastings, are you not, once of 1st Kings Guard Battalion?” The judge’s voice is like steel, slamming Arthur into reality.

“Yes.” Hastings’ voice does not falter nor shake. He is scared, but cannot show it. He gazes around briefly, looking down upon prosecution and what he assumes is defence _(Japp must have done that)_ , the dark panelling of the walls and benches making the room seem dark and gloomy.

It closes in on him and he grips the dock, forcing himself to breathe evenly, steadily. _This is not a trench. You can breathe. Nothing will come in on you. You are alright._

Hastings raises his head, looking for Japp. He sees him, about to rise, watching him with concerned eyes. He forces a thin smile, nodding to show he is alright.

Arthur is not alright in the slightest, and he prays that only Japp can see that. Body tight, back straight, Hastings stands at attention in the dock, determined to face this challenge down like he has done so many others.

He glances over his shoulder, expectant. _But I felt... I thought..._  He sighs, turning back.

“You stand before this court on charges of sodomy and possession of material showing engagement of homosexual acts and unnatural desire, as per Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act, 1885. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.” Hastings says, and nothing more.

“Calling the prosecution.” Fellmore raps out, and Arthur sighs as he sees Sharpman rise to his feet. Rat faced and rat nosed – Hastings knows this will not go well.

He just prays Japp is for the defence.

“Gentlemen of the jury, the evidence is thus.” Sharpman lays it out. “Love letters, between the prisoner and one unnamed. As you can see, he appears to be French–” _‘I’m bloody Belgian!’_ Arthur mentally substitutes – “with phrases such as... uh…”

Sharpman looks through the letters, unable to find exactly what he wants. He sighs. “Moving on to photographic evidence...”, and the photos are passed along to the men of the jury.  
  
Exclamations of shock and disgust from the jury. Hastings holds back a groan.

“You will see the prisoner’s face clearly shown in these photos. Clearly he is in a state of ecstasy brought about by the owner of the hand in the photos. I need not explain how this was achieved.”

Muttering from the jury. Hastings can see Japp putting his head in his hands.

They have already made their minds up, no matter what is said now.

“And then, gentlemen, there is the cufflink. The letters of H and P adorning said cufflink. We cannot find the owner of this cufflink, but that shouldn’t matter. He is not in front of us.”

Sharpman stares Hastings down. Their eyes lock. Hastings will not be the first to look away.

“Arthur Hastings is before us.” Sharpman’s voice is icy cold as he reaches his denouement. “What I must ask you, men of the jury, is this. To put aside his rank, his service in the Great War. You only need look at what is in front of you. Is this man guilty of sodomy and indecent acts, based on the evidence that has been put before you?”

A murmur rises from the men of the jury, and it bodes ill; Hastings just knows by its cadence.

“The jury shall adjourn to consider the evidence, and reach their verdict.” Fellmore, and it sounds to Hastings as if he is pronouncing death.

Hastings glances up at the chief inspector and can see he won’t have a chance for defence. There is no defence. Belatedly, Hastings realises there was never going to be, and whatever comes next, he isn’t escaping it.  
He is not taken back to the cells while deliberations occur, and his chest clenches.

The jury troop in again.

“Has the jury reached a verdict upon which they are all agreed?”

“We have, Your Honour.” the foreman replies. He shoots Hastings a look of sympathy. It does nothing to comfort Arthur in the least.

Japp locks eyes with him. “You can’t!” he pleads. “It’s only been ten minutes!”

“Quiet in the gallery!” Fellmore snaps. Hastings lowers his head in defeat. That was their one chance, that Japp would be heeded.

“Can the prisoner find it within himself to raise his head?!”

Hastings does, staring Fellmore down.

“Arthur James Matthew Hastings, you stand accused of sodomy. You have been found guilty of sodomy and indecent acts under the law, and I sentence you to twelve months in prison, the first quarter of which is to be served with hard labour. Take him down.”

Hastings stumbles. Japp is at his elbow, and he is the one takes him down. He doesn’t ask why.

“This is the best, and last, thing I can do for you, Captain. You’ll spend tonight here, and then you’ll be transferred to a prison in Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides to serve the rest of your sentence.”

Hastings pales, but does not answer.

“It’s two days away…” Japp falls silent, trusting Hastings to understand. He knows what the chief inspector is trying to say.

“Tell Poirot.” Arthur whispers as he enters the holding cell.

“I’m afraid he will not be permitted to see you.”

“Tell him anyway.” Hastings uses the last reserves in him to issue that command.

As Japp goes to close the door, Hastings wheels around to ask, “… my pistol?”

“Safe in my locked drawer. I’ll take good care of it, Captain.”

There is a roar from up the corridor, “Come away now!”, and Japp gently eases the door shut.

Hastings sleeps sitting up, as he did for those long nights not that long ago.

When he is roused for the journey ahead, he is ready, if sleepless; he gathers his few things and does not look back.

He sends up a quick prayer to the Holy Mother, should she be listening, to intercede on his behalf.  
She did so for many back in the trenches, but that was long ago and far away sometimes, and he finds it hard to believe she can hear them any more.

It’s worth a shot.

_Over the hills and far away_  
_He swears he will return one day_  
_Far from the mountains and the seas_  
_Back in his arms he swears he’ll be_


	6. ... and far away...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s almost a full fifteen hours of travelling - he loses track - and Arthur refuses to close his eyes. He will take his last look of England whilst he can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains scenes that some may find disturbing. If you do find such disturbing/it's a trigger/you just do not wish to read it, for the love of god and sanity, please skip the section, "He wakes when they reach the coast, to hands [...] and then he feels nothing."
> 
> You're good to read after that. (That said, the rest should make sense whether one reads that section or no.)
> 
> I don't seem to be able to put a warning on this chapter; nevertheless, do see above. Please let me know what you think.

It’s almost a full fifteen hours of travelling - he loses track - and Arthur refuses to close his eyes. He will take his last look of England whilst he can.

Oxford reminds him of Albert, whom he met in the trenches of Ypres, shortly before the first battle. They'd seen that one through together. Banbury, more memory. Lads he’d met, seen alive and dead, young ones that were only nineteen, twenty... and he’d sent them, unwittingly out into the utter hell that was no man’s land...

He should’ve gone, but who was there to head up the troop if he was gone? So he let them die instead.

Through the Midlands. No memories there, the country that he can see through the window pocked and scarred by war, the veterans of the Great War blinded and deafened inside the houses...

He probably knows some. Sinking back against the hard seat, the shaking walls of the prison van, he closes his eyes, wishing himself far away.

Arthur wakes with a jolt hours later, as the van shudders to a stop near Carlisle, and the door slams.

The officers get out to relieve themselves.

Arthur cannot; there is nothing to leave his body, and he sighs, closing his eyes again.

At the Scottish border, just off Gretna Green, Arthur is hauled from the van to stretch his legs. He doesn’t get far, nor do his guards care much.

They shove him back into the van and the journey continues, past Glasgow, Perth, and up into the beautiful, if lonely, Scottish Highlands.

He imagines taking his love away up here to a secluded cabin. It would have a fire blazing, furs on the floor and the most sumptuous bed they’ve ever lain on.

_“Sacre, mon Arthur, how did you do this?”_

_“It doesn’t matter, Poirot.” Hastings would whisper, pushing the shorter man against the wall, holding him there with his weight. “What does is we are alone, and we can be as loud as we like...”_

_Poirot would groan._

_“Like that, my love.”_

_Hastings would fulfil every desire he’s ever had, including having his friend against a wall – any wall. To take_ _control for a while and to see what he would do. To command and see how his love would respond to the steel_ _he used to have in his voice, what Poirot would do when he realised his soldier could slip back into the old_ _ways with the click of a finger..._

_To surrender then, after, and beg Poirot to fuck him so hard it almost hurts._

_Poirot would pull him to the floor in front of the fire, onto the furs, and Arthur would strip him gently, their_ _bodies warmed by the fire, the light playing over them. He would watch Poirot revel in the feel of the fur_ _beneath him, this alone almost making the smaller man come._

_Almost._

_Arthur would hold him close, bring Poirot to the edge again and again with his voice, telling him what he wanted to do to him, what Hastings wanted Poirot to do to him, hands playing over him..._

_And then Hastings would stretch and enter the beautiful man beneath him, so slowly that they both ache, they both need, and their moans would mingle, their need and lust unheard by anyone else._

_They would be safe and warm and comfortable, making love as fast or slow as they both desired, the feel of the fur helping them there, and Poirot’s moan of Arthur’s name tipping Hastings over the edge..._

_“Mon Arthur… comme ça, mon ange, ahh, s’il te plaît, mon amour, comme ça…”_

_“Hercule...” he would respond, “Hercule...”_

He wakes when they reach the coast, to hands in his pants, and for a moment he thrusts forward, whimpering...

Too late. He’s caught and held tight, groped, underwear ripped aside and stretched roughly, entered so that it burns, and hands cover his mouth, voice mocking at his ear, “This how you do it? I’m sure you like it.”

The hands hold him in place, and Arthur screams, feeling tears on his face. _Not like this, no!_

His body reacts and betrays him no matter how he begs it not to, and he can’t help the thickness in him, the hands on him, and there’s nothing to do but give in, and then he feels nothing.

_Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâces; le Seigneur est avec vous..._

_Over the hills and far away_  
_Over the hills and_  
_Over the hills and_  
_Over the hills and far away..._


	7. Stornoway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... for him a prisoner's life there'll be...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you if you are still here reading. Please leave a comment, even if it is "fuck". :)

He next awakes on the ferry to the island, still in the van, and prays he’s not bleeding. He tries to check. _No, don’t seem to be..._

When light hits his eyes, he cringes, shies away.

“Come on!” He’s dragged out, made sure he’s halfway presentable, and hauled through the ship, no doubt this punishment designed to show the others on it just _what_ he is.

They can’t all be going to the same place. They don’t look like they are, some women dressed to the nines... probably going to visit. Or maybe actually living here. What a dreary existence.

He doesn’t resist, all fight gone from him. There’s nothing for it and nowhere to go, and four months of hard labour ahead of him on a bloody island.

At Stornoway Prison, he’s signed in and kicked out, and the guards show no mercy.

“Another bandit, Scaggs?”

“Seems so, McElfin! Throw him in the cell Ardmore died in last night; only one we got.”

McElfin laughs, grabbing Hastings by the scruff of the neck and hauling him off. In the cell he hands him a cloth wrapped... something, and doesn’t even turn his back.

“I say, what on earth is this?!" Arthur protests. It feels thin.

“Prison uniform, my boy,” McElfin replies, “now hurry up and change! Put your clothes in the bag, mark it clearly with your name, and you’ll get it back on yer leavin’.”

Hastings removes the uniform from the pack, very conscious that the cell door is open and interested eyes are looking. McElfin grins wolfishly.

“Aren’t you...?”

“Am ah wha’? Yer a homo, son, tha’s why you’re here. You dinnae get tae make decisions, lad. Now give me your clothes.”

Hastings strips, hands over his clothes, slings on the thin uniform, and follows McElfin out of his cell.

Other prisoners, bigger and stronger men than Arthur, eye him warily as he passes.

He doesn’t drop his gaze but doesn’t stare them out, either – he has to survive in here, after all, and he’d really rather get out alive.

“Here,” McElfin snaps at him, stopping beside a huge water wheel. “You see?”

“Yes, sir. I see.”

“Lads, slow down there, we’ve a new recruit!”

They obey, slowing the rhythm for Arthur to see and pick up. He slides in easily, and within fifteen minutes, it is like he has always been there – the method is somewhat like rowing, but not quite.

After an hour, he can’t feel his arms, or his shoulders. It’s dirty, wet, back-breaking work, and Hastings supposes that is the point.

A peal of thunder makes all six look up as one, and groan. It’s going to piss it down, and they are not going to be allowed to stop for a minor inconvenience such as the cold and rain.

He has dealt with plenty worse in the past, including whatever they deem food. What’s deemed food may not be deemed edible, but that’s as yet to be seen.

Later that night, after many painful hours that Hastings has lost count of, they troop back to their cells. Arthur barely makes it to his bed, instead sleeping where he falls.

And the days carry on. They turn into weeks. The back-breaking wheel turning is literal, with some lashed to the wheel; a form of keelhauling, and they are lucky to die. No one mourns them.

Arthur forms no bonds, keeps to himself, has no solidarity with anyone. They know why they’re on the Wheel of Life, as it is mockingly known by every screw on the island.

They all know they are being broken because of who they love. Or loved, once. They are barely fed, barely watered, barely human, and in the end, they are all replaced, by new men, who do not know how cruel the Wheel can be.

They, like Hastings, come to learn it quickly.

At the close of April 1933, for the first time in months, Arthur does not have to leave his cell if he does not choose to.

He doesn’t, his world shrinking to those four walls. He sleeps, and wakes, and sleeps, and wakes, and does not know time.

Food is ash in his mouth, water like acid. He wishes he were back in Ypres; he lived, for just a while, with death on his shoulder when he was there...

He cannot eat, but continues to drink; knows if he won’t, they’ll make him and that will hurt.

Time melts away, his memories too. Only the worst remain, and they are soothing now, the drumfire of the Somme preferable to the grinding of cell doors and creaking of ropes.

He takes refuge deep in his own personal trench, burrowing so far down to protect himself he can no longer see light.

He eats, sleeps, and lives. Almost. He bides his time. His leg throbs and pulses – along with the whip scars on his chest – and he learns he is alive. Barely.

_Each night within his prison cell_   
_He looks out through the bars_   
_He reads the letters that he wrote_   
_One day he’ll know the taste of freedom_

If he has to die, he thinks, watching the sliver of sky he can see through the barred window, he wants one thing: to be loved, to be held. Arthur digs and rips at the scars on his chest, opening and bleeding them anew. It is the only thing he feels, and soon he no longer wants to get up. The moonlight paints his scarred, battered body in shades of silver, caressing it as hands once did in London, that city so far away.

He might go home, but will he live to see it? Will those hands still make his body their home?

He will live. For sheer spite of the law, he will live. _I didn’t live through the War for nothing!_

_Over the hills and far away_   
_He prays he will return one day_   
_As sure as the rivers reach the seas_   
_Back in his arms he swears he’ll be._

_Over the hills and far away_   
_He swears he will return one day_   
_Far from the mountains and the seas_   
_Back in his arms he swears he’ll be_

_Je vous salue, Marie pleine de grâces;_   
_le Seigneur est avec vous._   
_Vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes_   
_Et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni..._

The words awaken something long dormant in him, something... different. They remind him of someone, of something. A time long ago, memory he had to lock away to survive.   
  
French. Hail Mary, full of grace… the Lord is with thee.

Well, no, he never really was, was he? But _someone_ was: _his_ native French flowed from his tongue. These thoughts were awakening feelings deep inside Arthur Hastings that he had forgotten he could feel… flashes of memory, flashes of light, the passion rising in him... _mon Hercule, j’ai besoin plus… s’il te plaît, mon ange… mon bon garçon… he tosses his head, crying out his need..._

He trails his hands over his chest, opens the locked box of memories, and dives down, down into the darkness to drag the memories into the light. They no longer need to hide, and nor does he. He wraps his fingers tight – _almost_ – his breath hitching...

Arthur Hastings calls for his Hercule, the only person who can make this bearable. He could not speak the name of Poirot for fear someone would get to him, too.

His love could not stand conditions like these, but maybe he already has. Nevertheless, Hastings prays he will be back in London soon, even as he closes his eyes and surrenders to the night.

_Over the hills and far away_   
_He prays he will return one day_   
_As sure as the rivers reach the seas_   
_Back in his arms is where he’ll be_

_Over the hills_   
_Over the hills and far away_   
_Over the hills_   
_Over the hills and far away_


End file.
